


No Prisoners, Only Trophies

by EAI



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Human, Alternate Universe - Medieval, M/M, Magical Badassery, Supernatural Elements
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-01-16
Updated: 2017-01-16
Packaged: 2018-09-18 00:01:52
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,229
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9352385
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/EAI/pseuds/EAI
Summary: "In sorrow youth passes,In sorrows and pains, angrily boils the blood in the veins;Lowering brows - the mind cannot see,Is it good or evil that is to be."- Excerpt from Hristo Botev's The Struggle





	

**Author's Note:**

> Hey. Look over here. No, don't skip me! 
> 
> Before you scroll down to read the story, hear me out first. I took a leap of faith, okay, and deleted the old version of 'No Prisoners, Only Trophies' because I thought it didn't make any sense to me anymore and all of Derek's dialogues seemed and sounded [yes, I read them out loud] embarrassingly constipated. So, I tweaked everything up a few notches : up-ed the characters' level of bad-ass-ness, aimed for a more coherent plot, and [SPOILER!] decided to include a bag full of emotional scenes into this story. But have no fear, there will be romance - not the sexual kind but eventually *looks away* 
> 
> Some heads up though. Here, magicians are called 'Arcanes' or 'Arcanists'. There are a number of cities/kingdoms in this story, and all of the 'Prologue"s confusion will be answered in the following chapters. I WILL change the rating though and add a couple of warning tags as I go on. Basically, I can't wait to complete 'No Prisoners, Only Trophies' for you guys and for me too, though it may take me a while to update this because my real life is consisted of stress and butt-load of constipated university dramas.
> 
> Listen to 'Final Fantasy XV - Luna' and 'Davy Jones & Calypso Story' on Youtube, if you wish, as you read Prologue. Those two are basically the main themes for this story.
> 
> Unbeta'd, English is not my first language. Enjoy!

~*~

 

 Derek Hale & Stiles Stilinski 

 

~*~

 

 

_—into the Void, he floated in a sea of darkness. In sorrow did he watch his ivory string that had blossomed from his chest slowly turned crimson – corrupted – as he felt Void’s sinful sorcery tingling restlessly under his skin. It shredded every inch of his sanity as they burned their way for his memories. He winced and whimpered at the excruciating pain, begging for mercy not to take away any of his core recollections. But he knew, Void would never listen. He was falling into the endless, madness eventually. And before he slipped unconscious, out of exhaustion and surrender, he witnessed glittering dusts and jewels of souls prancing around him, sinking down with him. Protecting him from the unknown, and for what was to come. He heard his mother’s wistful voice then, ringing so gently through the dying light, and felt her familiar touch and warmth seizing him tightly._

_“My dearest child, the spirits have chosen you as my successor.”_

_When the darkness thundered so suddenly, the hues of dancing colors left him._

_“You are an Arcanist now, you are our Order’s eight sentinel. You will face hardships on your way, both bright and grim. It is all right to be angry at the world, it is all right to shed your tears, my darling. It is all right to be afraid. The gods and the dead will watch over you, they will heed your prayers.”_

_He cried when his mother’s warmth grew colder._

_“Forgive me for all the troubles I have caused you. No matter the tragedy that has fallen to our family, be strong, and know that we love you. Always, love you.”_

_And the soft kiss planted on his forehead ended all brushes of parental love that he knew. It was a cruel goodbye, and it hurt so much._

“Everyone fall back!” he hollered, sighting the scorching flashes of blue between clouds of thick smoke, before he housed himself in his field of magic. Fiery, razor-sharp projectiles rained down from the dead sky, incinerating most of his men to ashes. But to those who survived, as they mourned, he ordered them to keep moving.

Retreat.

“Fall back! Move, move!”

Manipulating the water and the damp earth beneath him, he quickly opened a portal for his fearful and injured soldiers to travel safely back to their camp, and ached when he found that his numbers were too little. Then he remembered his cousin, who went to this godforsaken battle with him, who was separated from his side in the heat and the freeze of war. He spotted her, too far from him, and she was terribly injured – left arm hanged brokenly, feet staggering in exhaustion, and half of her face was covered in blood – struggling in her fight against a white-robed figure who stalked around her like a predator. Coppery and bloody smell, sparks of lightning along the enemy’s arms. This robed figure was an Arcanist, like him, but a trickster and dangerous. He bolted over to rescue her, agitated at the thought he might lose her like he lost his parents, and quickly swung his zweihander as it clashed against the Arcanist’s black falchion, embers flew as their weapons grated against each other.

Oh the familiar dark and rough metallic shine, and the golden dragon insignia etched on the Arcanist’s blade, reminded him of something he created not too long ago. If the sword was indeed the same, then its wielder, much to his concern, was the _Prince_ Deucalion and his uncle had warned him about. He snapped out of his thoughts when Malia shouted his name in her dread, as the Arcanist – the Prince – surprised him with a weapon he conjured out of nowhere. The black falchion’s twin, thin-bladed but lethal. He barely avoided the attack before he found himself, yet again, ‘locked’ with both twin swords.

“Go!” Derek grunted, disentangling himself from the Prince and parried the other’s rapid assaults as Malia retreated hastily, promising to call for Deucalion’s help. He took advantage of the downcast, calling forth droplets of rain to build him crystal walls around him and his adversary, in hopes of no interference and that the Prince would not attack his soldiers any longer.

“I found you at last,” he heard the Prince said, a jagged mixture of harsh and gentle, deep and lively voices combined into one monstrous sound as Derek watched him lowering down his weapons. “For years now I have searched for you.”

Derek frowned, confused at the Prince’s candid words. The Prince then pulled the hood of his robe backwards, revealing his short brown hair and tendrils of Void’s red, black and blue sorcery crawling up his neck as he seemed to relish at the solid, gleaming walls that enclosed him. It saddened him, for no reason that the Prince might have been in control of Void’s magic for years. But now that Derek had a clearer look, he was taken aback – the Prince was _faceless_.

Blank, hollow, null.

No eyes, no nose, no mouth.

“A newborn Arcane with surprisingly brutal, yet volatile talents,” the Prince continued, resting his broader falchion on his shoulder, as he turned his attention towards Derek. “Void’s magic is wearing you thin” – he taunted – “no wonder you’ve tampered your crafts with your emotions. How tragic, which part of your memory did you sell to _him_?”

Derek corrected himself to a defensive stance, zweihander at his front when the Prince stepped closer, assessing Derek’s actions.

“I have no interest in fighting you, but it seems I have no other choice,” he rumbled when the air within the crystal suddenly grew thinner. Derek caught the coppery, bloody smell of the Prince’s magic coiling with his own. “Surrender, son of Hale, as I fear you are not as powerful as your **dead** mother.”

 _Mother, if you can hear me_ , Derek thought, _forgive me._

He swore he was lost in his rage, in his bloodlust as they clashed. Their spells and generated elements thrown in and countered and exploded, as they were surrounded by wailing infernos, and pain. So much pain. His eyes were heating, with rage and grief, tainting his sight with the shuddering color of blood - a similar shade as the invisible string on his chest. His uncle cautioned him once for its consequences before he made the agreement with Void. Derek promised to control his unstable strength but he couldn't, he would die if he didn't stop. And he wistfully wondered if that suited him just fine. 

Until the bite of the Prince's thin-bladed falchion pierced through his shoulder, grazing past his zweihander and thus disarming him, did he break out of his haze and realized all too sudden that his crystal walls were vaporizing. The rain washed down the both of them once again, war cries heard all around as the battle between the oppressors and the oppressed continued. Somehow, the Prince had saved him from his own demise. 

But their fight simply didn’t end with a sudden brush of gratitude, as the Prince dove his sword further, the blade slicing through and came the searing pain. Derek screamed in pain when the Prince yanked him closer, the sword twisted as the faceless Arcanist leaned to his ear, and whispered.

“Your eyes are too beautiful to be crimson," he said. "Surrender, for I will not ask you again."

**Author's Note:**

> I know it's short, and your reactions must be like "what the actual f---". But ehh. I'll see you in the next chapter, if you're still interested ;D


End file.
